Page 74 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Her fingers fumble with my button, my zipper, and I help her, kicking off my jeans until we're matched in our state of undress. When I lower myself back over her, the feeling of her body against mine, with only the thinnest layers separating us, is almost too much to bear.

We move together, finding a rhythm that builds the heat between us to an almost unbearable level. My hand traces the edge of her underwear, fingertips dipping just beneath the waistband, teasing, exploring. Her breathing becomes more erratic, her movements more urgent, and I respond in kind, my self-control hanging by a thread.

"Sand—" she starts, but whatever she was about to say is lost as my fingers find their target, and her words dissolve into a moan that I capture with my lips.

I watch her face as I touch her, mesmerized by the play of emotions—pleasure, surprise, need—that cross her features. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging into my skin in a way that will leave marks tomorrow. I welcome the sensation, the physical reminder of this moment.

"Please," she whispers, and though she doesn't specify what she's asking for, I understand completely.

I'm about to answer her plea when a sharp knock at the door shatters the moment like glass.

"Hannah? I brought dinner as promised!"

We freeze, staring at each other. Hannah's eyes widen, panic replacing desire in an instant.

"Hold on!" she calls, her voice admirably steady despite the circumstances.

"Shit," I mutter, already rolling off her, searching for my discarded clothing.

She scrambles for her own clothes.

I've never dressed so quickly in my life, pulling on jeans and fumbling for my shirt as Hannah does the same. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tame what my hands have thoroughly mussed, then pinches her cheeks as if to dispel the flush of arousal.

"How do I look?" she whispers.

Like sin itself, I want to say. Like everything I've ever wanted and more. Like the reason poets write sonnets and musicians compose love songs.

"Good," is what I say instead, because now is not the time for poetry. "A little…flushed."

She grimaces, grabbing a textbook and opening it to a random page. "Sit at the desk. Try to look like you're helping me study."

I comply, taking the chair and pulling it close to her bed, where she now sits cross-legged, the picture of academic focus if not for her still-swollen lips and the lingering desire in her eyes.

"Coming!" she calls, then gives me one last warning look before opening the door.

Lennox stands in the hallway, a bag of takeout in one hand, her eyes widening almost comically as she takes in my presence.

"Oh," she says, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "I didn't realize you had company."

"Sanderson is helping me with…statistics," Hannah says, the lie so transparent I have to cough to cover my laugh.

"Statistics," Lennox repeats, her tone making it clear she doesn't believe a word. "I didn't know hockey players were…so good at math."

"Yeah, we’re full of surprises," I offer, the picture of innocence despite my racing heart and the boner in my pants.

"I bet you are," Lennox says, stepping into the room and setting the takeout on Hannah's desk. "Well, I brought enough for two, but not three. I can come back—"

"No," Hannah says quickly. "Stay. Sanderson was just leaving."

I raise an eyebrow at her, but she gives me a subtle headshake. Right. Discretion. Taking things slow. All the things we were definitely not doing five seconds ago.

"Yeah, I should get going," I agree, gathering my phone and keys. "Team meeting soon."

"What a shame," Lennox says, not bothering to hide her amusement. "Hannah, walk him to the door while I set up the food?"

Hannah shoots her a look but follows me into the hallway anyway, closing the door behind us to give us a moment of privacy.

"Well," I say, my voice low, "that was…"

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